


baby, let's ride

by explosivesky



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, i was like 22 or something dont talk to em, it was called the hot dad au on tumblr. i really dont want to talk about it, this was half a joke and half based on a picture of peter capaldi in a cardigan, with glasses. and jeans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:33:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28775385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/explosivesky/pseuds/explosivesky
Summary: He pulls away, but the last kiss he places against her mouth is tender, delicate. The contrast is odd; sometimes she can’t tell if he’d like to fuck her or date her. Well; she’s always had a thing for older men.(Retrospectively, she probably shouldn’t be fucking her student’s father.)
Relationships: Twelfth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	baby, let's ride

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for rachel, who i haven't spoken to in many years since leaving this fandom but i hope she's doing well. <3 [my dw fics were uploaded in 2021 and backdated to ao3, as they were only ever on tumblr before this.]

In retrospect, Clara guesses that fucking her student’s father during conference night probably wasn’t the wisest decision she’d ever made, especially on school property.

But he’d made her come, so it definitely hadn’t been the worst decision, either.

–

He’s her last meeting of the night, and she’s praying to God he isn’t a self-obsessed, pretentious prick like most of the other parents have been. She’s had enough of the contesting of poor marks, exclamations of outrage at tallies of missed assignments, and the insinuation that it’s somehow _her_ fault instead of their own children’s; but she thinks she prefers that to the pompous, arrogant few who sigh dismissively and check their mobiles as she talks to them.

She rubs her palms against her eyes tiredly. One more meeting. She can do this.

The student’s name is Sebastian, and he’s adopted; he’s a sweet boy; a little quiet, but he always does the readings and contributes enough in class that she has nothing negative to say about him. His scores on her assignments are generally high. She hopes it’ll keep her appointment with his father short.

(She’s wrong. She’s so, so wrong—)

A man steps through the doorway too quietly for her to hear him enter.

“Apologies,” his voice rings out, gravelly and low. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.”

She lifts her head sharply, nearly tearing a muscle in her neck at the quickness of the motion, and grimaces before hastily turning into a smile.

“Not at—” She starts to say, and halts as the words stall on her tongue, mouth suddenly dry.

Her first thought upon seeing him is _oh, shit._

He’s older, and his grey hair is ruffled boyishly, haughtily; he’s wearing a deep blue cardigan over a white t-shirt and a pair of loose black jeans, half-tucked into his boots. He’s holding a pair of glasses in his hand casually.

“—All,” she finishes, staring at him unabashedly. “Not at all.”

Well.

She’s always had a thing for older men.

His lips are in a cool smirk. He says, “Miss Oswald, correct?”

“Yea—no.” She changes her mind halfway through, hating the formality; she wants to be as far from formal as she can possibly get. “Clara’s fine, actually.”

“Clara.” He steps forward to meet her, arm extended. “I’m Sebastian’s father, as I’m sure you’ve already assumed.”

She grasps his hand. His fingers are long and calloused. She tries desperately not to think about how they’d feel inside of her and opens her mouth. He waits expectantly.

She says, “Would you like to have a seat, or are we waiting for his mother, as well?”

It’s her subtle way of asking if he’s married; she doesn’t see a wedding ring, and he’d signed up to visit on his own, but she’d rather be sure before blatantly coming onto him.

If he knows what she’s doing, he doesn’t reveal it. His eyes glint dangerously, but it’s so brief she thinks it probably wasn’t there at all.

“No,” he replies, and nothing more. His smirk grows.

 _Damn_ it.

She swallows. “We should get started, then.”

He sits casually at one of the student desks in the front of the room, slipping his glasses on; he’s almost disturbingly attractive with them sitting on the bridge of his nose, staring at her from over the rims attentively. She feels like there’s a lesson she should be teaching him. The idea kindles a fire in the nerves low in her belly.

A spell of reckless sensuality overtakes her; maybe it’s her own ego getting away with her, but she knows, somehow, that he’ll be last person to report her for inappropriate behaviour. She tests the line. She doesn’t sit beside him; she lifts herself onto her desk, facing him, crossing her legs and leaning her elbow on her knee, chin against the back of her hand.

She watches the curl of his mouth, his eyebrows raising; his stare dips almost automatically to her calves, her thighs, lingering on the neckline of her dress and the lines of her collarbone. Sitting above him gives her a sense of power.

She meets his gaze like what she’s doing isn’t deliberate, forcing any flirtatious undertone out of her voice. “So,” she prompts. “Erm—”

“Doctor,” he interrupts, coolly entertained. “People call me the Doctor.”

“Doctor,” she repeats, wondering how such a generic title can sound so endlessly sexy coming from his lips. She shakes her head almost imperceptibly. “Honestly, it’s a relief that you’re my last meeting of the night, because it’ll also be the easiest. Sebastian is a wonderful boy.”

The Doctor smiles genuinely. “I’ve always thought so, but it’s good to hear he’s keeping up in school.”

She continues, attempting to get the official report out of the way. “His marks are high, and I’m normally quite impressed by his interpretations of our readings. He’s a strong writer.”

He listens pridefully as she goes on, but there also seems to be a certain level of amusement to his expression, like there’s a secret he knows about his son that she doesn’t. She continues, “As you know, this is simply supposed to be an update on Sebastian’s progress, so we’ll refrain from too many specifics.” She pauses. “He’s one of the only boys I’ve never had trouble with, though. He contributes more when we’re discussing science fiction – he loved _The Time Machine –_ but he’s a bit shy otherwise.”

The Doctor chuckles. “He would be, in this class.”

She stops. Her hands shift to the wood of the desk, flat, fingers curling around the edge. “Sorry?”

“He’s quite infatuated with you,” the Doctor divulges, nails tapping against the table. Ah; _there_ it is. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, actually. He’s been talking about you for months.”

Clara can’t help it; she throws her head back and laughs shamelessly. “That’s adorable,” she says. “I doubt I lived up to his – well. Children are impressionable. Imaginative.”

The Doctor hums. “Oh, I don’t know about that,” he says, and that’s all.

She pries again. “Meaning?”

He isn’t hesitant; he makes her wait purposely. The silence bears down on her for a moment. She thinks about straddling his waist, her hands digging into his shoulders.

He finally answers, “It’s the opposite.” He makes a show of looking her up and down again, eyes lingering on her hips, the crease of her dress between her legs. “He didn’t do you justice.”

She realizes, all at once, that he’s been waiting to catch her off-guard – to make her _think_ she was in control of the conversation, of his attention, before ripping up the ground underneath her feet. She feels her tongue dart out and sweep across her bottom lip. He cocks an eyebrow arrogantly.

This won’t do; there’s a reason she’s a teacher, and yes, it’s because she enjoys being in charge to a degree that probably isn’t healthy. She says lightly, “Well, you’ll have to apologize to him. I’m afraid your son is a bit too young for me.”

It’s the perfect segue. He smiles; his pupils are blown hungrily. He says lowly, “I’d like you to tell me something, Clara.”

Her thighs are squeezed together; she can feel her blood pulsing. “Go on.”

“What _is_ your type, exactly?” He asks, his voice dark and seductive. “You don’t seem like the kind of woman to date _boys_ your own age.”

She shivers and hopes he doesn’t notice. She allows her lips to tilt airily, teasingly, but she refuses to give him more than that. She glances down at the watch on her wrist. “Oh, look at that,” she says flippantly. “Time’s up.”

She slides off the desk, letting her dress slip high up her thighs, close to revealing the line of her underwear but not close enough. She can feel him watching her heavily. She turns around and walks to the whiteboard, lifting up the eraser and beginning to wipe it down nonchalantly, as if she hadn’t just been imagining him going down on her.

She hears the desk creak, and the sound of his boots scuffing against the linoleum floor. He stops behind her. Her movements slow and stutter.

His fingers are suddenly curving around her hipbones and his breath is hot against the shell of her ear.

“Do you know what I think?” He exhales huskily, and it takes everything in her to not drop her head back against his shoulder and guide his hand underneath the hem of her dress. “I think you’ve wanted to fuck me since I walked in here twenty minutes ago.”

She shudders visibly; she swears she can feel his smirk sinking into the crook of her neck. She whispers bitingly, “And what are you going to do about that?”

He tugs her back by the waist, her ass directly against him, hard underneath the zipper of his jeans. Her lips part. He murmurs, “I can think of a few things.” His fingers brush up her shoulder blade, pushing the sleeve slightly down her arm, exposing the curve of her shoulder.

She waits breathlessly, and then—

His mouth opens against her skin, tongue pressing gently; her hips grind automatically. She can feel his belt buckle. She feels almost ashamed at how fucking _easy_ she is and shrugs him off, spinning around. Her eyes are black and she can see how turned on she is reflected in his stare. His hands settle on her hips again.

She wants to fuck the smirk off of his face.

Her fingers curl around the back of his head and tangle in his hair; her nails scratch against his scalp and she pulls him forward, her lips colliding with his. His tongue is in her mouth before she can even comprehend opening it, and she kisses him back bruisingly, her teeth latching onto his bottom lip and sucking heavily. He growls deep in his throat, his fingertips digging into the curve of her ass.

She can’t stop her hands from dropping to his belt, releasing the hook, unbuttoning his jeans. She drags the zipper down and his palms slide underneath the backs of her thighs, hoisting her up; her legs wrap automatically around his waist.

He laughs when his fingers slip below the waistband of her underwear; he curls two finger into her boldly, eyes gleaming when she gasps.

“Oh, fuck,” she says, eyelids fluttering closed. Her hand wraps around a fistful of his shirt, tugging forcibly. She shakes her head. “No. We don’t have time for this. If you’re going to fuck me, do it right.”

He stills his ministrations, holding brutally against a particularly sensitive spot inside of her. She can’t breathe. He says, “I didn’t come prepared to fuck my son’s teacher tonight.”

She manages, “Birth control.”

He seems to find something amusing about that response, but he doesn’t protest. She chokes gutturally on her voice when he removes his fingers, and then he’s slipping his own hand into his pants, and then—

The moan that surfaces in her throat when his hips are finally sheltered against her is unlike any sound she’s ever made; she sinks onto him slowly, face flushed and jaw hanging. He busies himself with flattening his tongue along her neck while she adjusts; he’s nipping hard enough to leave impressions. There’s no fucking way she’s going to move past this tomorrow.

Her nails grip his shoulders savagely, and for a second he thinks she’s puncturing through his skin. She says breathlessly, “Really wasn’t kidding about not having time.”

He feels a pang of annoyance: she’s so fucking _bossy._ Fuck it. He’ll fuck her the way she’s asking him to, and she can deal with the consequences all she wants later; he starts a pace that has her biting crudely on her bottom lip, struggling to keep her voice in her mouth. She’s not doing a very good job, but her noises of pleasure are so sensual and _hot_ that he can’t bring himself to shut her up.

“So what is it?” He murmurs, voice low-pitched, thrusting forcefully. Her head knocks against the board, nails cutting at his spine, eyes closed tightly. “There must be something. Daddy issues? A fetish for control, perhaps?”

Her lips latch onto his neck and she hollows her cheeks, hard enough to break blood vessels. His jaw drops against her hair. “Half right,” she breathes out. “Control kink. No daddy issues.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

She shoots him a look that’s almost a glare, and he can read it perfectly: _Now? You want to have this conversation_ now?

She tightens around him deliberately, and he tries not to come in her right then. She says, “I like a man who – oh, _fuck –_ actually knows what the fuck he’s doing.”

He slips his hand between their bodies, knowing he isn’t going to last much longer, and remembering they aren’t the only ones still in the building. He drags his fingers across her clit, sticky and wet, her legs shaking desperately. She’s panting heavily, and he knows she’s close, and then—

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ,” she whispers hotly into his ear, arms gripping around his neck painfully. She’s pounding against him, rolling waves, but he doesn’t stop. He’ll make her fucking pay for it; she’s getting more than what she bargained for, after fucking him with her eyes and bending low over him, her cleavage blatant and the space between her legs inviting. He fucks her roughly and he can see tears in the corners of her eyes from the pleasure, hanging on as long as he can until the buildup breaks; when he finally releases inside of her, she comes again, like the aftershocks of an earthquake.

She’s a fucking mess when he slides out of her, and he is, too; her dress falls back into place without leaving any evidence behind, but his clothes are rumpled noticeably and her nails have caught threads in his cardigan, pulling them loose. Her head lolls as he lowers her from his waist, arms still around his neck. He realizes she can barely stand and tries to not let the thought turn him on again.

She looks up at him, eyes heavy and hooded, her neck and clavicle peppered with dark bruises he knows won’t fade for at least a week. Her lips are red. Her tongue darts out to wet them.

He dips his head and kisses her, slowly and lazily, making up for any lack of care he’d shown in the middle of the act. His hands cup her face gently.

He says, “I probably won’t tell my son about this.”

She laughs unwillingly. “Good idea, I think.”

Once he’s confident she’s steadier on her feet, he takes a step back, and just in time: a smattering of voices are heard in the hallway, presumably the remainder of the faculty leaving the property. She coughs, her cheeks still red.

He glances at the clock on the wall. “Look at that,” he comments idly, repeating her earlier remark. “We’ve run quite over, haven’t we?”

Her mouth curls. “We shouldn’t let our conversations run away with us like this,” she agrees seriously. “If you’d like to have a more in-depth talk, however, feel free to schedule an appointment.”

He admires the curve of her lips, the dip between her breasts, the length of her legs. He answers casually, “You know, I just might.”

–

She finds she can’t look at Sebastian for the next few days, and every time she calls on him to speak, his voice timid and quiet, she feels her neck flushing horribly and her ears burning; she doesn’t think it’s something he’s bound to pick up on, thankfully, but it makes her nervous nonetheless. Her face tinges red whenever she writes on the whiteboard.

About a week and a half later, Sebastian shows up to her class looking noticeably ill, his face rather pale, hairline sweaty. She stands in front of him, examining him closely, and presses the back of her hand to his forehead.

“You’re burning up,” she says, her embarrassment taking the backseat. “You should really go home, Sebastian. How do you feel?”

He blushes violently at being addressed so directly by her, but shrugs his shoulders. He admits, “Like I might be sick. I was fine this morning, but it – just hit me.”

She tuts under her breath and sends him to the nurse. He hasn’t returned by the time her class ends, but she’s got an hour break between her lessons anyway, and so she doesn’t mind.

She’s interrupted twenty minutes in by a knock at the door and lifts her eyes from her book to find the Doctor leaning against the door frame, smirking at her. He’s dressed in a suit and tie, glasses on again, and she realizes he must’ve come from work to pick his son up; he looks strikingly attractive. She aches between her legs at the memory of the last time he’d been in her room.

He steps in, shutting the door behind him. She doesn’t notice him lock it.

“Hello,” she says, taken aback by his appearance.

“Hello,” he greets, cocky smile still in place. “I’ve come to pick up Seb’s things.”

She points unnecessarily at the boy’s desk. “That’s his bookbag, there,” she tells the Doctor, even though she’s sure he already knows.

He walks toward her, hands in his pockets, completely bypassing his son’s backpack. She watches him approach, heart fluttering in her chest. Her stomach is in ropes.

“Good to see you again,” he says, the tone of his voice a fake brand of charming. She thinks he’s been inside of her one too many times to be genuine.

“And you,” she echoes, ignoring the fire flickering up her bones.

He towers over her, and then bends down and grasps the arms of her desk chair, trapping her in. It’s not as if she would’ve fought him anyway, but she senses he’s trying to get a ruse out of her, taking her control so blatantly away. She watches him passively, teeth skidding her bottom lip.

His eyes are dark. He nudges his nose against hers, leaning in, trying to get her to tilt her head. It’s a playful, deliberate motion, and she finds herself smiling; in spite of the thick tension between them, he’s showing her it wasn’t a random act of lust, driving him forward. Her eyelashes brush his cheekbones. She finally acquiesces, allowing his mouth to press carefully against her own.

He kisses her languidly, almost sweetly; but when he pulls back, there’s a wicked tint to his gaze. His hands shift to her legs, palms resting on her thighs.

“I have fifteen minutes,” he informs her. “The nurse is signing him out.”

It takes him sinking to his knees for her to realize what he means: he’s regained that smirk again, glancing up at her through his glasses, and then he’s forcing her legs apart, hooking his fingers around her underwear and tugging them down to her calves. She shifts forward in the chair automatically, her airway blocked and her eyes wide, cheeks already red and flushed. Her fingers tangle in his hair. His breath is hot between her legs and she shivers, tugging.

She hates his fucking smile. If she could ride his mouth, she knows it wouldn’t be there.

He parts his lips, and then—

Her nails scratch his scalp violently, tearing into him. Her gasp makes him laugh into her and she shakes viciously at the vibrations, nerves like lightning in a thunderstorm. She grinds her hips shamelessly against his tongue, and she actually has to cover her own mouth to stop her from screaming when his teeth scrape lightly over her clit. He eats her out like she’s an instrument he’s been playing since he was young, casually entertained, confident to the point of pretentious over his ability.

Her leg shifts over his shoulder, heel digging into his back. “Oh, fuck,” she exhales, trembling brutally, “oh, fuck, fuck—”

She feels like a fucking natural disaster, volcanoes and geysers, glaciers cracking into the ocean, hurricanes, typhoons. He slips a finger deep into her without warning, crooking it, and she bites on her own knuckles, trying not to cry out. He fucks her almost dismissively until she comes in his mouth, the frame of his glasses digging into her thighs.

He runs the back of his hand across his jaw afterward, his thumb tracing circles on the inside of her knee.

She looks down at him through her eyelashes, finding it difficult to keep her eyelids open. “You _fucking_ asshole,” she grits out breathlessly. “I’ve got to teach in twenty minutes.”

His lips curl, uncaring as ever. “I’ve been thinking about that,” he murmurs lowly.

“About what?” She pants, finding it hard to follow along.

“Tasting you.”

 _Jesus Christ._ She’d fuck him right here if she could, right now, but she knows neither of them have the time. She tugs her underwear up her legs again, trying to straighten her dress. She’s still wet; she’s not sure how she’s going to make it through the rest of the day.

His fingers curl underneath her chin and then he’s pressing his lips against her own, tongue sweeping, and her fingernails dig in to her palms when she realizes he’s forcing her to taste herself.

He pulls away, but the last kiss he places against her mouth is tender, delicate. The contrast is odd; sometimes she can’t tell if he wants to fuck her or date her. He moves to pick up his son’s bookbag, giving her a last look over his shoulder.

“Thanks for stopping by,” she says sarcastically.

He winks roguishly.

“The pleasure was all mine,” he replies dangerously, taking the upper hand.

“No,” she answers sweetly, stopping him. “I’m pretty sure it was _mine._ ”

He laughs as he walks out the door, and she tries to remember how to breathe again.

–

The next time she sees him is an accident; he just happens to be walking back to the car with Sebastian after picking him up from school, and Clara’s on her way to her bike, helmet tucked under her arm. He stops at the sight of her, eyebrows raised. She blushes instinctively.

Sebastian’s staring at her, too. She can’t play this off.

“Hello,” she greets them both, being careful not to look at the Doctor’s mouth.

“Hi, Miss Oswald.”

“Hello, Clara.” The Doctor’s voice remains imperturbable and fair; he’s better about giving himself away. His eyes are smirking at her. “How have you been?”

She keeps her tone just as mild. “Very well, and yourself?”

“Very well, thanks.” The answer is almost formal compared to what comes after it; he’s trying to fluster her. He says carelessly, “You look lovely today.”

“Thank you,” she responds politely, refusing to take the bait. She smiles nicely at the boy. “And how are you, Sebastian?”

“Good,” he answers distractedly, staring at his father with a strange expression on his face.

The Doctor’s gaze slips to her gear; he hasn’t noticed his son’s hesitancy. “Clara,” he says slowly. “Do you ride a motorbike?”

Something indistinguishable hovers underneath the question, dark and overbearing. She admits, “I do, actually.”

She can sense that there’s an entire arsenal of comments he’d like to make about that, but can’t in present company; she can imagine them, dirty and furious, whispered against her neck. She thinks about her bruises. He’s watching her intensely.

He clears his throat. “I’d tell you to drive safely, but I’m sure you’re a professional.”

She’d rather show him _exactly_ how professional she is, but that’s something she definitely can’t say in front of his son, and so she doesn’t. She smiles instead, shifting her weight between feet. His eyes drift down to the perfect curve of her hips. She needs to leave.

“Well!” She says, making a move around them to get to the parking lot. “Nice to see you, Doctor. And I’ll see you tomorrow, Sebastian.”

The Doctor inclines his head. “Good day,” he says, tilt shifting up his lips.

“Bye,” Sebastian calls.

The rumbling of the bike underneath her is suddenly the most inconvenient it’s ever been.

–

She’s grading exams mindlessly when she writes a 10 at the top of the paper and realizes it’s Sebastian’s name marking the dotted line. She stares blankly in confusion for a moment before rechecking her scoring, but she hasn’t made a mistake: he’s failed. It’s highly unusual for him, and it makes her wonder what possibly could have caused him to do so poorly on a subject he otherwise excels in.

She holds him behind after class the next day, showing him his test. He looks at the mark guiltily, but not in shame; she furrows an eyebrow at the odd intermingling of emotions. She says, “What happened, Sebastian?”

He shrugs, gaze trained somewhere around her left elbow. He’s clearly unwilling to answer, but it’s still a restrained motion, like there’s something he’s not telling her. He says, “I don’t know.”

She looks at him a moment longer, but she can’t force him to talk. She goes to her desk and picks up a pen, scribbling a note on the back and – after a second’s deliberation – her cell phone number. She hands it back to him and says, “Have your father sign this, all right?”

He nods bashfully, and scurries out the door. She can see the back of his neck burning bright red. She doesn’t know what to make of it, but she’s sure she’ll find out soon enough.

–

She’s in bed when he calls her, fingers buried inside of herself, imagining his tongue exploring every inch of her body. It vibrates next to her on the bed, centimeters away from her other hand curling around the pillowcase. She doesn’t give out her private number often, so she assumes by power of elimination who must be calling; it’s too great of a coincidence. She’s so frustrated that the mere idea of his voice whispering in her ear while she fucks herself is enough to make her grapple for the phone anxiously, struggling to keep her tone steady as she answers just in case she’s wrong. “Hello?”

“Hello,” he greets lowly, and she bites on her lip; she’s missed the ragged edge of his voice. “I assume you know why I’m calling.”

“Yes,” she replies, arching against her hand. She realizes she sounds breathless a moment too late. “How can I help you?”

She’s fucked; she’s so, so fucked – everything out of her mouth sounds like a plea. _How can I help you? Jesus Christ, let me help_ _you._ But isn’t that why she’d picked up? So he’d _know._

He pauses on the other end. Her fingers move faster. He says dangerously, “Have I interrupted something?”

She chokes on a moan in her throat. “No,” she exhales, her eyelids fluttering shut. “You’re right on time.”

He doesn’t speak for a long moment, but she knows he’s there; she doesn’t bother trying to stop herself from alerting him to exactly what she’s doing, gasping into the speaker, arousal coiling tight.

He mutters something under his breath that she can’t quite make out, and then says, “Are you close?”

“Yes,” she breathes out, heel of her hand pressing against her clit. “I’ve been thinking about you.”

“Doing what, exactly?” His voice alone sounds like something carnal, saturated in sex.

“Fucking me.” She can barely get the words out. “God, just fuck me.”

He stills again; she comprehends that he’s probably not in a position where he can be explicit with her. He says carefully, “I want you to think about our first meeting.”

“That’s all I do,” she replies desperately, needing more.

“I’d be glad to repeat it,” he says, a hunger evident on his tongue. “Is tomorrow night all right for you? We can talk then.”

Talk; she’d laugh if she weren’t about to come so hard. Images of him fucking her bent over her desk fly across her mind, burning, and her body shudders urgently. Her jaw unhinges as her toes curl, the phone falling away from her shoulder.

She breathes heavily for a moment, unwinding the cramp from her hand. She reaches for the phone again and rolls on her side, tucking it under her ear; she doesn’t have the energy to even hold it up.

“Tomorrow’s fine,” she agrees, exhausted, and he chuckles haughtily once before hanging up.

–

His meeting with her isn’t until five that evening. Sebastian still has trouble meeting her eyes, but she doesn’t pick on him during class; despite the sex, his dismal mark _is_ something she and the Doctor will have to discuss.

She’s glancing over essays when he arrives, leaning nonchalantly against the door frame, knocking twice on the wall. She looks up immediately, smile already forming.

He says, “Let’s clear this up.” He appears almost reluctant.

She inclines her eyebrows. “What?”

His arms are crossed. He tells her, “He failed on purpose.”

She blinks, surprised. “He did _what_?”

The Doctor lifts and drops his shoulders in surrender. “He’s…developed a few _ideas,_ ” he tells her pointedly. “Unfortunately, he’s picked up my skill of observation.”

She’s not exactly following. “Explain.”

The Doctor rolls his eyes at the command in her voice, meandering toward her with his hands in his pockets. “He’s under the impression that I think you’re _pretty,_ ” he informs her mildly. “He’s set us up.”

Clara laughs, finding the notion incredibly endearing. His arms slip around the curve of her waist, pulling her to him. Her hands rest on his chest. She says, “That’s sweet, in a way, considering he fancies me.”

“Mm.”

She asks lightly, “So, do you?”

“Do I what?”

She’s teasing. “Think I’m pretty.”

He scoffs. “ _Outrageously_ _sexy_ is probably more the phrase I’d go for,” he says, smirk betraying him. “But sure, it’ll do.”

She leans up and kisses him, smiling against his mouth. She’s slowly realizing the chemistry between them might amount to more than just physical attraction, and she’s not against exploring it in the slightest. He seems to pick up on the vibe she’s exuding and doesn’t press her for more, soaking in the feeling of how her lips feel against his when he’s not aching to be inside of her.

“I’ll let him retake the exam,” she allows, pulling back. His mouth touches her cheek gently. “I’ll waive the mark – this _once._ ”

He’s unconcerned, his breath now on her ear. Well; he can only last so long. “How generous of you.”

She gives him a stern look, willing against her natural reaction to shiver. “We can’t keep having sex in my classroom.”

He hums against the crook of her neck. “Your voice over the phone suggested otherwise last night,” he whispers in polished amusement. Her nails have found their way to his scalp, scratching delicately. He’s backing her up like he’s seen her fantasies. He says, “If you’d like, after tonight, I’ll settle for taking you to dinner instead – and then taking you home with me.”

She grins, her neck automatically arching at the sensation of his teeth caressing the skin over her pulse point. “Or I’ll take _you_ home, considering I’d rather your son – and my _student –_ _didn’t_ hear us fucking.”

“Semantics.” He hums. “He stays with his aunt and uncle on the weekends, sometimes.”

His fingers are creeping up her thigh. Her ass bumps into her desk, but he’s steadying her against it. She squirms. “Is this your idea of asking me out?”

“Yes.”

She appreciates his bluntness, but still fights the urge to laugh. “Well, I accept.”

His hands are suddenly gripping her skin forcefully, and she feels her hipbones digging into his palms. He spins her around, barely giving her time to catch her fall forward, fingers splayed against messes of papers spread across the surface of her desk.

He hikes her dress around her waist and murmurs, lips at her ear, “If we’re not doing this again, we’d better make it good.”

–

So, she takes it back.

Fucking her student’s father during parents’ night was definitely one of the best decisions she’d ever made, especially on school property.

Even though she should probably be fired.


End file.
